


Seven Seas of Rhye

by ofswordsandpens



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Powerful Percy Jackson, hoo rewrite, im literally just rewriting a five book series eyyyyy, starts off just following canon events then I just hi-jack the last book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofswordsandpens/pseuds/ofswordsandpens
Summary: In 1999, the Great Prophecy came to pass. Percy Jackson turned sixteen against all odds and a single choice preserved Olympus. For ten years, all was right with the world – as right as life could be for a demigod, that is.(A Heroes of Olympus rewrite – one in which all of the original pjo characters are a decade older when the Hero of Olympus series start.)





	1. The Boy She Loves

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I'm rewriting the hoo series through a large collection of chronological one-shots.  
> I'd personally love to see how the characterization and plot line would have shifted if Percy, Annabeth, Nico, etc were a decade older than the hoo characters and when the events of hoo began.  
> And honestly, this is me shamelessly changing things in the second series as I see fit. For the most part, the first four books will follow the canon events... and then I'm completely changing the story line for Blood of Olympus. If you see any plot points the crop up in the earlier books that weren't there before thats most likely me just setting things up for the finale.

**The Boy She Loves**

. . .

His side of the bed is cool.

Annabeth rubs a heavy hand across her eyes to wipe away the sleep and casts a blurry glance around their bedroom.

Empty. _Messy_. Pink morning light hems the edges of the curtains and his wallet lays on the bed side table still.

 _The beach then_ , she figures and collapses back into the pillows. She stretches fully, a pleasant soreness in her limbs and joints popping just so, and then she steals his pillow, hugging it close to her body.

Just a little more sleep.

. . .

The waves of the Long Island Sound crash into the shore with a calmness.

She stands there, her feet cold in the pale sand, in the same spot where… where he _should_ have been, where he has been every morning before.

_(Where he sits, shoulders broad, and his hair is swept and tousled by the ocean breeze. And after awhile, she’ll join him, and he’ll steal her cup of coffee with that smile of his and wrap an arm around her shoulder to pull her closer, a kiss pressed to her temple.)_

But he’s not there.

The only traces in the sand that lead from the porch are her own.

. . .

He’s not at the dining pavilion.

Or in the strawberry fields.

Or in training.

Or with Chiron.

And when Malcolm asks her why Percy didn't show up to teach his class, the pebble of worry in her stomach turns to a stone.

. . .

 _“Have you seen Percy?”_ It’s the million dollar question, and not one that there seems to be in answer to.

Clarisse scoffs. “Why on earth would _I_ know where _your_ husband is—“

But she trails off, maybe as she notices the stress strung in Annabeth’s tone, or the way she twists her wedding band round and round and round her finger.

“No.” Her gaze is level. “I haven’t.”

. . .

 It’s when Sally Jackson confirms that he isn't at her apartment, the camp begins to search.

. . .

“Are you sure that he hasn't been called upon by Poseidon to—”

_— He wouldn’t have left without saying anything._

“Did Rachel—“

_— I can’t get a hold of her._

“Did you guys have a fight or —“

Will quickly backpedals at her murderous expression and holds up his hands as if to say _my bad._

Travis speaks up. “Do you think this has to do with Olympus…?”

A hush falls over the counselor room, eyes falling to Chiron and his silence is answer enough.

. . .

At dinner, Annabeth makes an offering to her mother and to Poseidon.

She’s not surprised when she doesn't receive an answer.

. . .

Annabeth tries to remember the night before.

She tries to remember a shift of the bed, a brush of his hand, footsteps against the floor, the click of a door being shut, _anything_ that might have woken her.

Maybe, she remembers the gentle press of his lips against hers.

Or maybe its wishful thinking.

. . .

On the second night, she dreams of a goddess.

Her hair is a silky black and her dress shimmers like peacock feathers.

“Hera.” Annabeth spits and the goddess regards her disdainfully. “How do I find him?”

Suddenly, the dreamscape melts into hues of clay reds and desert browns and Annabeth recognizes it immediately.

The Grand Canyon. A yellow school bus travels along a dusty road.

The goddess’s voice is like a serpents. _“Find the boy with one shoe.”_

. . .

And she does.


	2. Lightning, Forge, and Dove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter for Piper, Jason, and Leo and probably covers about the first half of the Lost Hero. The chapter after this will intermingle more of what Annabeth, Rachel, and the other campers are doing while the three are actually on their quest.

. . .

**Lightning, Forge, and Dove**

. . .

Jason wakes in the back of a school bus. He doesn’t know who he is much less the boy with the impish grin nor the pretty girl who holds his hand so sweetly, despite what they insist.

His instincts, however, tell him a lot.

They are the ones that prompt him to flip the coin in his pocket for a golden sword.

The ones that recognize what the storm spirit is.

And the ones that urge him to go right over the edge of the canyon after that girl without a second thought.

They also tell him, that the blonde woman holding the pointed end of her dagger to his throat poses a much bigger threat than the storm spirit ever could.

There’s a waver — of anger? distress? — in her voice as she speaks.

“ _Where_ is he?”

. . .

“She’s been looking for one of our campers, who’s been missing three days,” Butch explains. “She’s going out of her mind with worry. She hoped he’d be here.”

“Who?”

“Her husband — A guy named Percy Jackson.”

. . .

A daughter of Aphrodite.

A son of Hephaestus.

A son of _Jupiter_. (As Jason would say.)

All claimed far older than they should have been.

The gods have ceased contact.

The Savior of Olympus is missing.

And Chiron, for the first time in her life, won’t tell her what he knows. (And how it stings like salt on a wound)

Annabeth doesn’t need a prophecy to know that something terrible is on the horizon.

. . .

“She’s crazy.” Leo shrugs.

Piper pushes him off the bench.

“Well she is!” He hisses.

“Cut her some slack, Leo. Her husband’s missing.”

His perfectly good glare is wasted since she doesn't spare him a glance. She just glowers icily at nothing and everything... just like the day before.  It’s still strange for him to see her this way, all _glamorous_ with perfect hair and flawless skin and twinkly eyes.

He had watched her rub mud over her face this morning.

It didn't stick, apparently.

He follows her line of sight to… Jason. Not a shocker. The guy seems to be doing some sort of practice with his sword — going through forms? — and that’s still strange to see too.

Not Jason, his friend, who would let Leo copy off his answers during a test and helped fill Mr. Cravat’s car with whipped cream, but Jason, the warrior.

Jason, the demigod.

Leo’s hesitant, but still, he asks, “He really doesn't remember us?”

“There’s nothing for him to remember.” She scowls. “He was never even there.”

. . .

A prophecy is foretold.

Children of lightning, forge, and dove to free the goddess Hera.

They don't send teenagers out on quests anymore, but the fates could not have been more clear.

_(And nothing said about the son of the sea.)_

. . .

The head counselor of the cabin of love is, in no surprise, lovely. — Tallish, with blown out blonde hair and dimpled cheeks. College-aged.

 _Lacy,_ she introduced herself. And somehow the only phrase Piper can think of is _sweeter than an apple pie_.

“Here are some clothes and some toiletries and feel free to take your time in the bathroom! We blocked off a full hour for you. Oh, and after I could _totally_ braid your hair after if you wanted! Wouldn't that be fun?”

“Uhhhh…”

“Oops.” Lacy smacks a perfectly manicured hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. Do you have any questions? I know it can be so overwhelming. Did you even know your mom was a goddess—”

“ _Lacy._ ” Mitchell interjects and the rest of the cabin snickers.

Piper makes an effort to not look gobsmacked. “No… I think I just want to take a shower right now.“

“No worries!” Her teeth are blindingly white against cherry red lips. “Enjoy your shower and we’ll get you packed for your quest tomorrow.”

. . .

“It’s because of the last counselor.” Mitchell says to her, later, when the only two bunk lights that remain on are his and her own.

“What?”

“Lacy,” He nods pointedly at the sleeping form, a wave of blonde hair spilling from beneath the covers. “Why she’s so… overly nice. _Perky_. Well, its actually the last two counselors, I suppose.”

Piper raises a prompting brow.

“Our last counselor was Drew and she was… well she honestly was just awful. Really liked the power and wanted to put us all down. She had this obsession about the rite of passage.”

There’s a groan and then Lacy pulls the cover down from her face, shooting a tired  _look_ at Mitchell. “I wasn't going to tell her this until after she got back.”

“She might as well know now.”

“Know _what_?”

They both glance to her, then to each other, then back again.

“The rite of passage for an Aphrodite child.” Lacy sighs. “You get someone to fall in love with you, then you break their heart.”

“That’s _terrible_ —“

Mitchell lifts his hand. “That’s not the point right now. Drew was obsessed about it, she was convinced that that’s why the counselor before her — Silena — died. Silena fell in love and stayed in love. Never broke anyone’s heart but her own.”

“Do…” Piper swallows the uncertainty in her voice. “Do you guys really think that? That Silena died because she didn’t—”

“ _No._ ” Lacy emphasizes. “I think that Silena died because it was a _war_  and Drew was a sixteen year old girl that suddenly became the head counselor of the cabin and was in over her head and didn't want anyone else to die.”

“You give her too much credit.” Mitchell shakes his head. “You’ve forgotten how mean she was.”

Piper gets the distinct feeling that this isn't the first time they’ve had this argument. “And where is Drew now? Does she live in the Isles?”

. . .

_“Take this trail and you’ll get to the Isles.” Annabeth points at a path, opposite the cabins, bearing right of the lake. “They’re houses. Where demigods can live safely once they reach adulthood.”_

. . .

“No.” Lacy’s eyes fall to the floor. “She ran away from camp when she was eighteen. No one has heard from her since.”

. . .

And here’s the thing every half-blood knows about living in the mortal world:

It’s not a matter of _if_  a monster will get you, it’s a matter of _when_.

. . .

“Your hair is pretty.” The words tumble from Jason’s lips before his mind can catch up to his mouth.

“Oh.” Piper’s cheeks are pink as she tucks a stray lock behind her ear. The plait is thick down her back — a dark, cool brown that sheens in the sun. “My uh… my _sister_ convinced me to let her braid it.”

A sky of uncertainty hangs between them. He feels there are words to be said — words that hang off the edge of his tongue but disappear as soon as he tries to speak them.

“We…” It’s dialogue to the script he doesn't have. “We should get going soon.”

. . .

Leo arrives at the big house on the mechanical, flying dragon.

Naturally.

Annabeth watches the three —

Watches Leo’s exuberance, his face split by a wild smile and arms motioning widely in a gesture that clearly says _come on in, the water’s fine!_

Watches Piper’s awe, torn between incredulous laughter and shaking her head _no, no, no_.

And watches Jason, whose head falls back towards the sky as if asking for spiritual guidance… which he might just be.

. . .

For a moment, she’s reminded of the pair of twelve years old that bickered all the way up and down half-blood hill, ready to save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest shift was the interactions between Piper and the Aphrodite Cabin, cause you know what? I want love and support in my cabin of love. Lacy is my gal, and I tried to give more depth to Drew than what was offered in canon. I'm mean so much of the children of Aphrodite are just bad stereotypes, and I didn't like the way it was portrayed.
> 
> I also wanted to wait to develop the friendship between Annabeth and Piper, because in tlh, Piper is literally there for like 6 seconds before Annabeths like, "Yes. I, an extremely closed off person with thick barriers, will tell you all of my emotional trauma right now." And Rachel being like "Omg you're so similar"... wasn't actually doing any work. Show me don't tell me.


	3. Hera’s Design

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chp 3! Covers the second half of the Lost Hero.
> 
> I'm really excited because I'll be getting to the Percy centric stuff after chapter four. The Son of Neptune should be where the divergence of the au really starts to kick in.

**Hera’s Design**

. . .

She captures Percy on canvas.

The strokes of paint are angry and imprecise, and he’s cast as the glow of color against a background of charcoal shadows.

His face is hard — blue-green eyes that are icy and cutting and a jaw that’s severe.

_(Poseidon’s regal features)_

A laurel of gold rests upon his head as if it were a crown.

Rachel adds the final color. — A purple, rich and royal, in long, loose lines that drape from his left shoulder and down to the edge of the canvas. The perspective frames him from his chest up, but it’s clear that he wears a toga

. . .

“Bold of you to assume that I won’t push you off this dragon.”

“I’d like to see you try, Beauty Queen.”

Her eyes flash with intensity, growing as dark as the clouds around them, and Leo matches her glare.

But he’s the first one break, his lips curling into a smile he can no longer contain, and she snorts as they collapse into laughter.

Jason grins at the two of them but even Leo can tell he’s distracted at the way the he stares off into the storm-ready clouds... as if searching for something a million miles away.

. . .

 _“Nothing.”_ Grover rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm to stave off a migraine. He inhales deeply. “I’ve been trying to get through but somethings blocking the link. Like a brick wall.”

Annabeth releases a shuddering breath. “But he’s still alive then.”

“I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.” He manages a grim smile.

They lapse into silence, thinking, then she says, “Do you have anyone stationed near San Marino?”

Grover’s eyes grow round. “As in Los Angeles? _Beryl Grace’s_ San Marino?”

Jason’s words are on repeat in Annabeth mind. There are very few coincidences in their world, and the fact that the boy who can’t remember anything, remembers Thalia Grace… she couldn't have asked for a clearer sign.

“Just tell them to keep a look out in the area, there’s a possibility Percy could be there. Maybe. I don’t…”

She trails off but Grover nods, simply. “I will.”

. . .

Grover disappears with a shine of sunlight, but while the rainbow is still there, she flips in another gold coin.

(The seventh drachma in seven days.)

“Show me Perseus Jackson.”

The mist shimmers like static.

_“I’m sorry. The person you are trying to reach cannot be contacted at this—“_

Annabeth breaks the spray with an angry slash of her hand, blinking back the sting of tears.

. . .

Arizona to New York to Quebéc to Michigan.

Piper thinks this has to be to worst road trip ever. (Leo thinks they should make T-shirts.)

And Jason… well Jason, just wants answers.

She tries not to keep comparing Jason to what she knows (knew?), but still, it’s like there are two Jason’s in her head. Old Jason and New Jason.

Old Jason who she told everything to and dances with on the roof of the auditorium and _not real, not real, not real_.

Sometimes she forgets, sincerely, and instinctively goes to grab his hand and only to remember last second.

New Jason is contemplative. Sincere. Funny.

Not her boyfriend.

(And someone she can easily keep right on being in love with.)

 _It’s better this way_ , she decides finally. It’ll be easier for her when she has to betray them both in the end.

. . .

“…He says everything in their Latin names. I’m starting to think that…”

_That there’s a Roman Camp and the very knowledge of the existence of them endangers us?_

Annabeth doesn't finish her thought, her eyebrows furrowing, and Nico manages to keep the panic out of his voice.

“Di immortals. When was the last time you slept Annabeth?” Deflect. Deflect. Deflect. “Really. You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends. You’re dead on your feet.”

His awful pun is enough to crack a weak smile from her and she touches the dark circles framing her eyes gingerly. “I don’t need sleep, Nico. I need to find him.”

“And we will.” He lays a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Really.”

She chews on her lip, as if contemplating, then says, “When you're searching — Try Los Angeles. Thalia used to live there and… well, I have a hunch.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

. . .

There is something that’s particularly awful about third wheeling a couple a second time. — Even more so if you consider the first time apparently didn't even happen.

Jason and Piper.

And Leo.

How it was, and how it will be again.

Piper doesn't it see it. Jason doesn't see it. But its hand writing on the wall — the way their cheeks burn whenever they get too close and yet how comfortably comfortable they are around each other.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s happy for them, he just… he just wishes someone looked at him that way.

Piper laughs at something Jason said — several octaves too high — and Leo just shakes his head.

 _Dorks_ , he sighs to Festus and the dragon snorts in response.

. . .

_“Jason?”_

Her bow slips from her hands and clatters on the ground.

“…Thalia?”

. . .

“It was just after the war.” His _sister_ explains. “I had gone back to my — _our_ — mother’s house for the first time in years and she has a _baby_.”

Thalia snorts as if she still can’t believe it. Her eyes roll over to him, the same shade of electric blue. “You, Jason. And she swore up and down that you weren't _Zeus’s_ … but I knew she was hiding something.”

She gestures to the other girls in the silvery get up. “I was leading the hunters and I couldn't abandon them… but I didn't trust her. I would station a girl at the house, to keep watch. And I would come back as often I could.”

“You were a cute babe.” A hunter says offhandedly then crinkles her nose. “For a boy.”

And it’s odd, to think that these twelve year olds knew him as a baby.

Jason’s head feels murky. “Why didn't you just take me to camp?”

“You don't understand, Jason.” She takes his hand in her own — cold and soft and definitely not the hands of someone in their thirties. “I had suspicions of our father. But I wasn't sure. And if I took you to camp as the son of Zeus? As _another_ child that broke the oath of the big three and sired directly after the end of the war? Gods, it could have lead to another war. Believe me, it was safer there, with our mother under my watch and no one the wiser. Or, at least, I thought it was.”

Her face morphs into a cold fury and he can feel a current of electricity flow through their linked hands. Leo and Piper take a step back.

“But once, when I came home, she convinced me to go on a family trip. It was odd, _she_ was actin _g odd._ I left you alone with her for a _moment_ —“ Her voice breaks, the _current_ breaks, and she covers her face with her other hand.

“I thought you were dead.”

. . .

Illinois to Nebraska to Colorado to California.

They free a goddess and complete a quest.

There’s a moment, when Leo’s friends could have left him, (would have been the smart thing to do) but they didn’t. They stood up for him and it warms him more than fire ever could.

There’s a moment, when Piper talks someone back from near-death. She’s not a traitor and she saves her father all the same. She’s powerful, anyone could have told her, but she starts to see it for herself.

There’s a moment, when Jason starts to remember.

There’s another camp, another world. There are old friends. And there’s someone important. — A girl named Reyna.

. . .

Piper sits on the stone bench next to Jason, laurel wreaths in their hair and faces flushed from a night of celebration. The stars twinkle brightly against the night sky.

His face is contemplative — always contemplative — but seems lighter than it has since she’s known him.

 _Really_ known him.

And suddenly, it strikes her how unfair she’s been. How unfair she’s been to keep comparing him to someone who never even existed.

Not Old Jason. Not New Jason.

Just _Jason_.

“Hey.” She says abruptly, breaking the silence, and sticks out her hand. “I’m Piper Mclean. _Proud_ daughter of Aphrodite and Tristan Mclean. I like fantasy books and loud music and the color orange. It’s nice to meet you, person I have no preconceptions of.”

For a moment, Jason looks at her like she’s lost her mind. But then, because he gets it, gets her, his face breaks into a smile brighter than the stars around them and takes her hand within his own.

“I’m Jason. Jason Grace.”

. . .

In the Big House, Chiron let’s Piper call her dad.

Her eyes wander over his Hall of Fame as the phone rings — Hundreds upon hundreds of photos of demigods. They plaster the walls from ceiling to floor, spanning over what must be decades.

One photo catches her eye. A wedding. A blonde woman and dark haired man that stand embraced on a sunset painted beach. — The woman has his arms thrown around his shoulders, his neck, as if to pull him down for a kiss, his hands resting on her lower back. Even at the distance the photo was taken, Piper can see the pure, unadulterated joy of their smiles.

Simply put, a beautiful couple.

But there’s a familiarity of the woman that Piper can’t place and, like a flip of a switch, she realizes its Annabeth.

Annabeth, unrecognizably glowing and happy and carefree. Not the queen of ice and steel that walks in her place.

Which means the man must be her missing husband. Percy Jackson.

. . .

They have a council meeting in the Big House.

All of the dots are finally connected, questions answered.

“Percy Jackson is at the other camp.” Jason says. “He probably doesn't even remember who he is.”

And for the first time, Annabeth can’t keep back the wave of heartache. Holding her face in her hands, she softly begins to cry.

. . .

The camp begins to build the Argo II.

“Eight months.” Cabin 9 says. Annabeth scans over the blueprints.

“Seven.”

. . .

And Percy Jackson continues to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Nico. I got an ask on Tumblr about how he's affected by the AU and this is only the beginning. I'm really excited for his character.
> 
> Also Im pretty sure I spent the most time describing Percy and Annabeth's wedding photo lmao.
> 
> I will fully admit that I am partial to Percy and Annabeth over the rest of the characters so I hope I'm striking a good balance between them and the new hoo characters. So do you guys like the length/pacing of the chapters? Want more or less? I'd love to know what you guys think!


	4. Murphy's Law

**Murphy's Law**

_. . ._

_Last December_

. . .

Christmas Eve is cold in the city.

She’s lost all the feeling in her toes a half hour ago and her cheek still stings from when she fell on the ice.

But the crowds are loud and festive and cheerful, drunk off holiday spirits and those of the other kind. She can hear the boisterously sung hymn of a half-remembered carol and, far, far above them, past the rich lights of the city, flurries of snowfall from the night sky.

And here with Percy, his hands warm and face an amber glow in the fairy lights, there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Does your boo-boo still hurt?”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Keep talking, Jackson. We’ve still got six months till the wedding and I’ve got plenty of time to change my mind.”

And he laughs, sliding her closer with an arm around her shoulder. Her feet are unsteady in the skates, wobbly, but he balances them with ease. — A son of Poseidon is always sure on water, no matter what form.

“Kiss to make it better?”

Annabeth pouts.

Swiftly, he dips his head down and presses his lips to the pulse point of her neck — one that’s meant to be over-the-top and playful and the hot exhale of breath sends shivers over her icy skin and her nose scrunches up with laughter. He finishes with an exaggerated _smooch_ sound and grins cheekily.

“Better?”

She locks her leg to slow their momentum, and, wordlessly, he understands what she’s aiming for — turning sharply in his skates to face her and stopping them entirely. She rests her hands on his chest, following a trail upwards — over his scarf and curving up, around the nape of his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, and tugging him downward.

The brush of his lips are sweet and tender and carry a promise of a smile. A warmth blossoms in her chest, a familiar hum, and then she pulls back.

“Better.”

. . .

_Present_

. . .

“ _When is Percy going to be home_?” Estelle’s voice teeters on the edge of a whine.

Annabeth and Sally’s eyes meet across the room, heavy and uncertain, and Paul takes the initiative to redirect Estelle’s question.

“You know that Percy’s on a quest Stella-Bella. He’s probably not going to be back for a while. Why don't you open another present?”

Estelle sighs deeply, her eyes rolling in a way that only a nine-year-old can perfect, and reaches for another red-wrapped box from beneath the tree. “It’s not the same without him.”

Annabeth tosses back the rest of her eggnog.

_Cheers to that._

. . .

The present in Sally’s hands is wrapped in shimmering gold — like a thousand drachmas in the midday sun.

“It’s from Percy,” Sally says, softly, carefully. “He’s been hiding it out here since November.”

Annabeth inhales sharply, and with trembling fingers takes the box, feeling as if it were made of glass.

. . .

_Merry Christmas, Wise girl._

_Love always, Percy._

. . .

The snow globe is mesmerizing.

Intricate and delicate and beautiful, a white-gold that shines like freshly fallen snow.

She knows it’s a nod to the traditional, tacky tourist gift —a _New York, New York_ snow globe— but in the same instance, its anything but. It's more. So much more — an intricacy that can only be the product of Tyson’s meticulous dedication.

Incased are her and Percy, little figurines of that snow-white ore that skate on fogged glass. They twirl and dance with one another, shimmering, and then Percy’s figure flourishes his hand upwards and sparkles of snow swirl around them.

Magic. Pure magic that sweeps her breath away.

_(And makes her painfully aware of the lump in her throat.)_

. . .

Thalia leaves the first day of January, with the hunt, as she must.

She spends the entirety of it with him, laying on the porch of Cabin One, a shock of black hair bleeding into blond. Thalia talks and talks and talks, reminiscing of past times shared together. — Most Jason can’t remember, given he was so so young, just vague sensations and fleeting images.

But he remembers her. And of it, she has remained the same. — Cool hands and starry eyes and a constellation of freckles across her nose. Where Jason is a summer’s day, she’s a winter’s night.

“Such a serious face, even as a baby.” She pokes at his cheek and he swats it away with a snort. “Still the same face.”

For a moment, there’s a deep sadness in her voice. One he knows all too well.

He wonders how different it would've been if he had never been taken.

_(If he had never been given away.)_

Would he have ended up here eventually? Been raised as a son of _Zeus_? Grown up with a sister?

_(Would he have belonged?)_

But it’s no matter. The past is the past is the past.

Then she sits up, head tilted as if hearing something far, far away, and he knows it’s time for her to go. She hugs him fiercely and she slips something into the palm of his hand, small and silver and circular.

“A compass.” She says. The metal is as cold as snow and when he flips it open, the thin dial spins wildly before settling on _her_. “It points towards the hunt. If anything happens, if you _ever_ need me… you’ll always be able to find us again.”

. . .

(And then she joins the huntresses on the hill, smooths a parting hand over the tall pine that stands on the camp borders, and they disappear into a wall of fog.)

. . .

Annabeth reminds Leo of Barbie.

Really.

Of course, the idea starts with that whole leggy, blonde bombshell thing she has going on.

But it’s solidified by the fact that she’s able to do anything and _everything_.

Instead of _Hi! I’m tour guide Barbie._

It’s _Hi! I’m Architect Annabeth!_

_Hi! I’m Aeronautical Engineer Annabeth!_

_Hi! I’m I-can-kill-a-man-with-a-single-look Annabeth!_

And frankly, it terrifies him.

“Children of Athena can be _so_ snobby.” His sister, Nyssa, tells him with the role of her eyes. “But they’re smart and we’re smart, so we work well together.”

“They’re just a bunch of nerds.” Bekker has a loud voice — the type of one that booms and garners more than enough steely, razor eyes thrown their way. “Once you see them have a meltdown over D&D…” He shakes his head, snickering. “They’re not all that.”

. . .

“Anna.”

“No.”

“Beth.”

 _“_ No. _”_

“…Annie?”

“ _Leo_.”

. . .

Piper almost falls into the lava. If it weren't for Jason catching her by her wrist, she’d be a hunk of charcoal.

“You know,” She says as he helps pull her over the lip of the wall and onto the landing. “I don't understand why they make the guy who can fly spend time on a rock wall. Doesn't exactly seem fair.”

“I still climb. It’s good practice.”

A grin tugs at her lips because that’s _such_ a Jason thing — To do it the right way even when it would be easy not to.

“You’d probably be up here even faster if you weren’t helping me half the time.”

His smile is telling. “You said that, not me.”

She elbows his side, lightly, and they laugh.

“It would also be easier if my hands weren't covered in splinters.” _And_ if she didn't get distracted by watching the muscles in his back ripple beneath his shirt as they climbed up the wall.

Her heart skips a little when he cradles her hands in his own.

“I’ll tell you my secret.” His scar stretches with his smile. “It’s easy when the fear of falling doesn't hold you back.”

And they peer down over the edge, far, far, far from the ground. The camp _is_ beautiful from this vantage. Strawberries fields and rolling hills and vast, rich forests. The Long Island Sound shimmers welcomingly in the sun, but she knows that golden sheen is deceptive of its icy depths — Winter has not even reached its peak in New York, and she can see the snow outlining the borders of camp.

Her siblings at the bottom of the wall are no bigger than ants and Piper shudders. “I think I’ve fallen from the sky more than enough for any lifetime.”

“You know I’ll always catch you.”

Piper hopes her cheeks aren't as red as they feel.

She steals a glance at him, expecting softness and sweetness, but instead his expression is unsettled — eyes tense and distant and looking at her but not.

She knows this face. He’s somewhere else, reliving a memory.

“What is it?”

His chest swells with a sharp inhale — and then blinks rapidly, shaking his head as if to clear away the fog from his eyes. He frowns, his brow pressing down, somber.

His voice is frustrated. “I don't know.”

. . .

His cat is gone.

And really he shouldn't be surprised because he’s been gone for too frequently, and too long, but that’s _his_ cat and—

Nico sighs deeply, pressing his forehead to the frame of the open door of his cabin as a swell of exhaustion washes over him.

He shouldn’t be here. Not now. Not with Jason remembering more. Nico has done a _splendid_ job of melting into the shadows whenever the son of Jupiter wanders near but still it’s risky.

More than risky.

If Jason recognizes him, _well_ , he doesn't need to be a child of Athena to know that that will _not_ blow over well with camp.

And Annabeth.

 _Especially,_ Annabeth.

He should tell her, _wants_ to tell her, because the guilt is suffocating —pressing down and down on his chest, his lungs, like a stone in water but there are too many roles he’s cast himself in.

Right now, he is the son of Hades, the Ghost King, and his blood runs every bit greek as the rest of Camp Half-blood’s.

But for the Romans, his sister, he is the son of Pluto and if he reveals himself too soon, they’ll only see him as treacherous. — A liar. A deceiver.

The Trojan Horse.

And any possible chance of an alliance will be shattered before it has even begun.

No. Nico knows his role in the grand design and the part to bridge the alliance for the Romans is not his but Percy’s.

_(The Savior of Olympus)_

But still, it does nothing to soothe the sting when his friends pass him with wide smiles. When he churns out lie after lie to fill in for his time missing here. When Annabeth sits next to him, her voice breaking as she says that _Percy doesn't remember anything._

. . .

“Late July. That’s when Will predicts.” Katie Stoll (née Gardner) lays her palms on her stomach — she’s beginning to show, a soft swell breath her shirt — and her face contorts with anxiety. “This is bad. This is so very bad.”

“ _No._ ” Annabeth shakes her head sternly and takes Katie’s hands into her own. “You’ll be fine Katie. You and the baby.”

“Another great war. Percy’s gone… this is a bad omen.” Her lips tremble. “My mother isn't answering my prayers. If Travis and I had known that—”

“The baby will be born, healthy and strong,” Rachel interjects, smile reassuring and eyes ever-green. “Trust me. I have a good feeling.”

And that seems to appease Kaite for a heartbeat, her brow smoothing because Rachel Dare’s _good feelings_ are something that no one ever doubts.

. . .

Jason sits alone at the dining pavilion.

Annabeth doesn’t know why this is the day that she notices it, but she does.

And _of course_ he sits alone, because he's the only child of Jupiter that’s present at the camp, but the slump of his shoulders and the silence of his solitary are all too familiar, and for flickered moment, it’s not a head of blond hair that she’s looking at but instead windswept black.

It plucks at her heartstrings and her teeth dig into her lower lip and maybe she’s painting a sadness to his figure when there’s none, but still, she waves Thalia’s younger brother over.

“Sit with us.”

. . .

He has his sister’s eyes. That electrifying, sky blue.

And a serious face, she thinks. Not unlike her husband.

But where Percy’s features rest somewhere close to brooding anger,Jason’s fall to the side of solemn and pensive.

Outside of those two aspects however, he appears entirely dissimilar to the greek children of the Big Three. Easily, Thalia, Nico, Percy, _(Bianca)_ could pass for siblings. — All sharp angles and dark hair and bad-intentioned smiles.

Jason is the day to their night. — Broader, friendlier features. A more welcoming air.

The kid she’d trust her lunch money with.

But now he seems, uncertain, hesitant, with his arms pressed against those of her siblings, and she knows it must be hard already, to be a fish out of water — A roman among greeks.

His eyes linger on the blueprints spread in front of her and she pushes cutlery aside so she can slide them over to him.

“A school,” she says, her finger tracing the straight line of one of the columns. “It’s on the back burner for now with, well, _you know_ , but I have _so_ many plans. More houses, then apartments. Shops. A city.”

His shoulders perk up with interest. “You’ve designed all of this?”

“The Isles.” She counts off on her fingers. “Half the cabins, not to mention all the renovations I’ve done. Oh, and of course,” She shrugs nonchalantly. “Olympus.”

_“Olympus?”_

“How humble, Annabeth.” Leslie throws a grape at her from across the table but Annabeth plucks it out of the air before it can hit her. She sticks her tounge out when her sister pulls a face.

Jason blows a low whistle. “That’s… impressive. Wow.”

Annabeth laughs and the sound is not quite so hollow. “We’re gonna get along just fine, Jason.”

. . .

And they do.

Because with every day,Jason feels a little surer there, a little less isolated.

He and Annabeth share stories about the camps — about the structure, the culture, the social etiquette — because she’s curious and he is too and of course she'll need this information for the future. Also, it feels natural to trade one story for another. His memory is riddled with blanks and fuzzy still, but there’s enough for the basics of it all.

Or maybe they’ll talk about Thalia — he learns that she’s a sister to Annabeth as well and he aches to hear all of the time he missed. _(And what do you mean she was a tree?)_

Her eyes light up as she speaks, a smile that he’s rarely witnessed gracing her lips, and Jason feels like he can see the spark of the person she must have been before December.

And then there are her siblings —about a dozen — but its the same few he ends up talking to because they sit next to him.

Malcolm is at her right and Jason’s introduction to the guy was him saying he’s a telepath simply to laugh at Jason’s panicked expression. (Jason still can’t tell whether he was joking or not.)

And Leslie sits next to him, close in age, with a choppy bob of silky pale hair and a book thicker than his fist. — She wants to be a writer and can solve a Rubik’s cube in less than five seconds.

. . .

And, slowly, they become his friends. His friends alongside Piper and Leo.

And that question, that _same_ question, hovers like a constant, unwanted spectator in the periphery of his mind:

At the end of it all, when the war is over, the prophecy fulfilled, and _if_ they have won, where does he go?

_(Where does he belong?)_

. . .

_With the taste of your lips, I’m on a ride. You’re toxic, I’m slippin’ under._

At Piper’s _Are you serious?_ eyes, Lacey stops her enthusiastic singing long enough to say, “It’s the month of love, Piper. We have to pay homage to our queen.”

“But… _Britney?_ ”

“Yes, Britney.” Lacey waves her hands like _duh_. “I’m sorry that you can’t appreciate good music. Besides, if you don't participate in Cabin Activities, you don't get to choose what we listen to.”

“Yeah, Piper.” It’s the words of a snobby little kid that’s sucking up to ‘mom’ and Piper screws her face up, pitching her voice higher to do an even whinier imitation of Bella’s tone.

_“Yeah, Piper.”_

“Lacey!”

_“Lacey!”_

Lacey sighs heavily into her hands. “Piper don't antagonize.”

Bella beams a shit-eating grin from beyond Lacey’s shoulder—

“You either, Bella.”

— that morphs to a scowl.

Piper falls back on Lacy’s pillow with a huff and stares up, up at the black lines of metal that support the bunk above her and the pictures that Lacy’s taped there, then to the left, where her siblings sit on the floor, constructing Valentines from pink and red papers.

(Valentines that will create a love spell between the sender and receiver.)

(“That’s awful.” She had said.)

(“Just wait until you get pranked by the other cabins. Some things require divine retribution.” Lacey smiled airily but there was a flicker of vengeance in her eyes.)

In fairness, they _are_ temporary. And inspires nothing more than goo-goo eyes and hand holding and the embarrassment that comes afterward, but still, it doesn't sit right with Piper. She’s reminded too much of their mother, who plays with hearts as a cat plays with canneries. And she’s reminded of Jason, of the kisses beneath the stars that had never ever happened.

. . .

“Here.” Annabeth presses something cold into his hand.

A Monster Energy Drink.

“You’re a goddess,” are the only words Leo can manage.

And she laughs like she expected nothing less.

There’s still an air of coolness about her but, somehow, she’s more, well, _cool_ which Leo realizes sounds a bit like an oxymoron. — She understands his mechanical jargon and can sing along to his songs that are in Spanish and gets him energy drinks off the black market. (The 7-Eleven down the road from camp).

And right now, its exactly what he needs because he’s dead off his feet.

It’s late.

Or maybe very, very early.

He can’t really tell because the bunker is a _bunker_ and there are no windows to let in to the light of day but their siblings and the others have left hours ago — Annabeth has reached her stage of exhaustion where she spouts out random bits of trivia, and he finds it harder and harder to blink away the bleariness from his eyes.

They’re just so close to a breakthrough.

“Try four parts Styx water to three parts venti essence,” Annabeth says from where she lays sprawled on a pallet of wood. — She hangs her head off the edge to watch him and her hair tumbles long and gold in the work lights.

“We already did.” Leo picks up the notebook where they’ve written down their scratch work. The notes have gotten progressively worse — overlapping and messy and _gods, what does that even say?_

“Alright. Think.” Annabeth groans, pressing her palms to her eyes. “If Lemnos Fire becomes reactionary to too much…”

She trails off and makes as face as if she forgot what she was going to say entirely and Leo sighs because it might be time to call it a night.

So naturally, it’s a complete accident that they get it.

He mixes the ingredients with his _natural born intuition_ — reckless stupidity Annabeth will later say — and there’s an explosion, hot and blinding, that blows him back a good ten feet. The breath is knocked from his lungs like a punch to the chest and his head spins when it cracks against the stone floor.

Three Annabeths stand over him, concerned faces swirling like a kaleidoscope.

And there’s smell similar to burning gasoline.

( _Fuel.)_

“Three parts Scorpion Blood.” He coughs, weakly. “Eureka.”

. . .

Her hair is wet from her shower, soaking into her sweatshirt _(his sweatshirt)_ , and cold. — And that coldness sinks beyond her scalp and deep into her bones and makes her forget what warmth is.

Annabeth presses her back deeper into the couch —

— _into him. The bed at the safe house could hardly be considered a single and she fits herself into the lines of his body. She’s shivering because the rain was freezing and she wasn’t immune to it the way Percy was. She’s long dry now, but the cold lingers, and he wraps his arms around her and hisses when she presses her feet to his legs._

_“Oh my gods.” He laughs into the back of her neck and his breath is warm on her skin. “You owe me.”_

_She twists then, and its a hard feat not to tumble out of the bed, but she manages, and his breath hitches when her lips ghost over his._

_“Warm me up.” She whispers against his skin, and the air shifts, charging, and he moves over her —_

_—_ and clutches the blanket tighter around her.

She’s so tired.

. . .

Jason’s dream goes like this:

There’s a mountain, framed by dark, angry clouds shot with threads of lightning.

There’s a titan. — Titan Krios of the skies and stars.

There’s an army. — One that he leads. Kids adorned in purple cloth and golden armor.

And they’re dying.

“ _Jason_.” A girl flanks his left, her eyes like gold. “Do we fall back?”

The Fifth Cohort wasn't sent here to win. They were sent here because they were expendable.

No one expects them to make it back.

“No!” Jason yells to his comrades. “Stand your ground. To die fighting is to die an honorable death.”

And Jason calls for the winds, his feet lifting from the ground and into the sky. His body teems with a thunderstorm of electricity, urging to be unleashed. “I’ll take care of Krios.”

But then the setting shifts — he’s not fighting anymore, he’s not on a mountain, but in a stone hallway, dimly lit, where a girl’s voice hisses — _The Fifth Cohort, Jason. Really? The First was literally bending over for you and you chose—_

But he’s gone again. Away. And a wolf stands before him. She’s tall, taller than him, with deep russet fur and eyes like silver — silver that makes him feel there’s a hand clutching, squeezing, his heart — but she’s not looking at him. She looking next to him, at the forest floor, and he follows her line of sight where a man lays, sleeping, hair dark and—

. . .

—His eyes open.

For a moment, Jason’s confused, his mind foggy, heavy, and he feels as if he’s still sleeping but there’s a sound. — A soft tapping on glass.

The window.

He shifts out of bed and pads over to it, pulling back the curtain…

And Piper’s smiling face greets him.

“What are you doing?” He whispers when he slides the pane up, and she wraps her fingers over the still and onto his own.

“Sneak out with me.”

His heart stutters. He looks beyond her — at the dark night, the camp still and painted blue by the moon.

“What if someone catches us?” _He’s a centurion, a senator, and he has to set an example for_ — He shakes his head. _No, he’s not._

“Pretty please?”And the words wash over him, sounding sweeter than honey. Her eyes are temptation.

He smiles despite himself. “It’s not fair when you use Charm Speak.”

“Did it work, though?”

“Yeah. It did.”

. . .

He flies them to the top of the Climbing Wall.

Part of it is in hopes that the harpies won’t spot them from there. And the other is simply instinctive — it’s the one spot, time, where their schedules overlap, and he’s used to being there with her.

Piper spins gleefully on landing, arms spread as if she could fly herself. Against the stars, her smile is wide and beautiful, her hair loose, and Jason watches in mild wonder.

 _Free._ That’s what she is.

Then she plops down beside him, tucking her knees beneath her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs.

“Are you cold?” He asks.

“No.” She says, knocking her shoulder against his. “It feels nice.”

He follows her gaze to the horizon, where the sky is starting to lighten in color. They sit in amicable silence for a heartbeat, a couple of heartbeats, and then she speaks.

“We never get to see each other.”

Jason scoffs, laughing. “We see each other every day.”

“Yeah! For like, an hour.” She says it in a way that implies its both disgusting and that he should _obviously_ know that it’s disgusting. “We don't get to hang out really.” Then she pins him with an accusing glare. “And you sit with the brainiacs at meal times.”

It’s all playful and he raises his hands up in mock defense. “That wasn't my idea. But they’re…” His tone grows genuine, fond. “Nice. Really.”

“You look like you could be related to them. Blond hair and all.”

“Not gonna lie, I think Athena has a type.”

“Ugh.” She snickers, and her laugh makes him feel light.

He voices his thought before he can lose the courage.

“I think I want to kiss you.”

Her smile imparts a secret and her eyes are bright. Bright and soft and beautifully warm. — A dark brown that smolders.

“Then kiss me.” She says.

And he does.

. . .

On the Ides of March, Annabeth falls.

Luckily, Clarisse is there to catch her — a hand snatching her wrist— and Annabeth dangles 40 feet from the ground.

 _Should've roped myself to the frame_ is her first thought. _Son of a bitch_ is her second.

Her arm had snagged on the wood plank in her attempt to catch herself, and a long line of flesh is torn away on her way down, from the crook of her elbow to the top of her wrist. Adrenaline numbs the initial sting of pain, but she can feel the warmth of blood run down the length of her arm and drip from her fingertips.

“ _Aphòdeuma_ , Annabeth. Are you alright?” Malcolm calls from the bottom of the clearing, and the sounds of construction grind to a halt.

Clarisse lifts her back on to the plank and rips the bandanna off her head for a makeshift tourniquet.

“Ah.” Annabeth blinks against the haze of sudden blood loss. “We’re going to need to fix the board.”

. . .

_Days since last accident:_

_0_

_:(_

. . .

Annabeth winces at the sharp sting of nectar against the wound but, gradually, the throb of pain dissipates as muscle and tissue and skin sew back together. The angry gash turns into a red line that turns into a sliver of pink.

“You’re still gonna be a bit woozy. You lost a good bit of blood.” Will says, handing her a baggie of ambrosia. “So go home and take it easy for the rest of the day. Take the ambrosia before you go to sleep. There won’t be any scarring after that.”

. . .

He walks her out of the infirmary and she’s surprised to find Clarisse sitting on the steps of the porch, waiting for her.

“Make sure she gets home,” Will says sternly — or at least as stern as Will manages — and he squeezes Annabeth’s shoulders before heading back in.

It’s only when the door shuts that Annabeth starts towards the bunker.“I’m fine. I need to get back to work.”

“No, you’re not, princess.” Clarisse catches her by the back of her shirt and Annabeth’s dagger eyes don't faze her. “You’re coming with me.”

“I need to—“

“You ruined my favorite bandanna with your blood. You owe me.”

. . .

They end up at Clarisse’s porch.

And for the first time, in a long time, Annabeth feels like the weight of the world _(the sky)_ is off her shoulders.

It might be the rum.

(It’s definitely the rum.)

“And you know what else?!” Annabeth swallows another mouthful and she feels so delightfully _warm_. “It’s ridiculous that we’re building a boat when the guy who can _literally_ control boats with his mind isn't even here.”

She throws her hands up in exasperation and a splash of rum falls on her shirt. She frowns. “Awe, I liked this shirt.”

She rubs at the stain pitifully and Clarisse snorts. “And I liked my bandana.”

Annabeth falls back on the wood with a huff, lifting the bottle up to watch the porch light refract through the glass. And then she closes her eyes because she’s _weightless_ , and the breeze is so so nice on her skin.

“How’d you do it?” She mumbles.

“Do what?”

Annabeth cracks open an eye and Clarisse looks at her with expectancy, prompting, swinging softly in her hammock.

“When Chris came back, how’d you do it?”

“Huh.” Clarisse takes a swig from her own bottle. “I just _did_. Every day, I talked to him. And little by little, he just got better. It wasn’t easy.”

Annabeth rubs her eyes until she sees stars. “I hate this. We’re _never_ done.”

Clarisse raises her bottle skyward. “To the life of a demigod.”

Annabeth meets her toast. “To the life of a demigod.”

. . .

She’s about ready to fall asleep where she lays and then suddenly Clarisse’s throwing an ax into the dead of night and there’s a panicked _“What the fuck?”_ and her heart is in her ears.

But Nico steps out of darkness, shadow clinging to his shoulders like a cloak, face sour, and she laughs with exhilarated relief.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying not to get killed by flying axes.”

“My bad.” Clarisse says with the particular air of someone that could care less and Nico scowls

“I was in the area, looking for… something.” He frowns momentarily and then appraises Annabeth with a searching look. “Do you want me to get you home?”

She nods airily and Nico helps her to her feet, steadying her when she staggers. 

Annabeth picks up her rum. “I’m taking this.”

Clarisse mocks salute her. “Aye aye, captain.”

“Can you shadow travel?” Nico asks.

“Uh…. not if you want me to hurl all over you.”

“Got it. We’re gonna walk.”

. . .

And they do.

They have to get out of the woodland path of the Isles to get to beachfront houses but the night is nice and she still in the fun part of drunk so its no matter for him.

“I need to add some lights.” She frowns at the dark landscape, lit only by the moon and occasional house. She jabs his shoulder with a pointed finger. “Remind me to add lights when I’m sober.”

Nico laughs and nods reassuringly. “Yes, ma’am.”

The sound of waves against the shore grow near and she notices his wandering eyes.

“What are you looking for?”

“My cat.”

She gasps. “Spooky? She’s gone?”

Her face crumples at his nod.

“Oh, this is awful.” She wrings her hands. “If only I had put lights in, then you could see.”

“No, no, no.” Nico rushes to assure her, struggling to keep back his laughter. He hugs her to his side. “This isn’t your fault.”

Her face is uncertain — uncertain and _actual_ tears threatening to spill over her lashes — and he attempts to divert her attention.

“How’s your arm?”

She blinks, then her eyes brighten.“Oh yeah. Will _totally_ asked me about you today. Asked me when you were going to be back.” She giggles at his blush. “You _so_ have it for him. And he _liiiiiikes_ you. Why don't you do anything?”

“Has anyone told you that you're a fun drunk?”

“Yes!” She nods earnestly. “Percy told me so.”

The use of his name doesn't upset her.

His missing cat? Yes.

Her missing husband? No.

Nico figures she’s well past the point of return and she doesn't fight him when he takes the bottle from her hand. “I bet he did. I’m cutting you off.”

“Seriously.” Then her eyes pin him, a ghostly gray in the moonlight, and she appears strikingly sober. “Why not?”

Nico looks down at his gloved hands. For a moment, he’s going to tell her, tell her everything, the words about to rush from his mouth like water from a broken dam… but he swallows them down.

“You know you're my friend, right?”

Again, she doesn't catch the switch in direction of conversation and a smile lights up her face. “Of course. That’s a stupid question.”

And he kisses her cheeks in parting before she stumbles into her house, (his skeletons remaining firm in the closet.)

. . .

That night, Annabeth dreams.

She dreams of her mother but it’s not her mother.

“Minerva,” Annabeth says and the woman’s eyes flash with familiarity.

There’s a rush of something — of wind in Annabeth’s ears and her hair, a foreboding twisting her gut, a rustle of feathers, a trickle of fear…

She opens her hand and there’s a single, silver drachma resting in her palm.

A whisper hisses directly into her head. _“Avenge me.”_

And then all Hades breaks loose. There’s an explosion of darkness — no, not darkness, _spiders_ , spiders coming for her, crawling on her and there’s someone screaming — no wait, that’s _her_ — and she tries to drop the drachma, to throw it far, far away, but it’s burning a hole into her palm.

. . .

(And when she wakes, _screaming_ , the coin remains in her hand still.)

. . .

Some days, when Leo looks at Annabeth, he wonders if it is possible for someone to die and reanimate their own corpse.

Today is one of those days.

Her skin is ghostly pale in the lights of the bunker, her eyes — eyes that are framed by dark, heavy circles — are lifeless, unseeing, and her hair hangs limply around her face.

Her thumb picks at the ring on her left hand.

“Seven cabins.” She says, abruptly, as if answering a question he never asked and her fingers trace over the blueprints of the interior. “Seven cabins.”

. . .

They steal kisses and hold hands and he spins her around when he hugs her and it feels right, right, _right_.

Makes Piper feel like she’s flying, soaring.

Leo simply rolls his eyes and grins his elvish grin and mutters _It’s about time._

And Lacey tells her the top ten best make-out spots in camp, her cherry smile growing wider with every shade of red Piper turns.

(But there are doubts)

(Doubts, that she can’t get rid of any more than Jason can get rid of the SPQR tattoo burned on his forearm.)

. . .

Grover arrives at the beginning of April.

And Annabeth wasn’t expecting it to hit her so hard to see him, standing there, but Grover’s on their porch and she can hear Percy’s dorky _“Hey G-man!”_ and then they’re hugging and then they’re crying, straight into each other's shoulders.

“Some heroes we are.” Grover sniffles.

“Hey!” She nudges him. “I think I’ve been doing a pretty good job at keeping it together.”

“Really?”

“No.” She laughs, sadly, thickly. Her eyes are blurry and she presses the tips of her fingers to her hairline. “I’ve been a walking disaster. I’m pretty sure I’m traumatizing the new arrivals.”

“I mean, what’s the Camp Half-Blood experience without a gentle bit of trauma?”

“Not the Camp Half-Blood experience.” She winks, poorly and wetly, and yet she feels lighter than she has in a while. Grover laughs with her.

“Come on, Grover.” She takes him by the hand and leads him into the house. “I’ve been saving my soda-cans for you.”

. . .

Two months.

Two months and they’ll set sail.

Two months and he’ll be back to his old home.

(And that’s what it was right? His home.)

And in his dreams, a sleepy voice whispers to him. _Who will you fight for, Jason Grace? When blood is shed and history repeats, which side do you belong?_

 _I don’t know._ He wants to yell. _I don't want to choose._

And the whisper laughs.

He’s too unsettled to go back asleep, his cabin too empty, Zeus’s statue eyes following him, so he sits cross-legged on the porch, Thalia’s compass in his hands.

He opens it and waits for the needle to settle, then closes it and repeats again. _(Click. Click. Click.)_

There’s a rustle nearby, leaves shifting, and he freezes, listening…

And a cat leaps onto the porch. — Black as night and eyes crystal blue, a small silver bell jingling from its collar. They stare off for a moment, then he relaxes.

“Hi.” He says and it rubs its head against his foot, back arching in a fluid movement that ends with the flick of its tail. Slowly, Jason reaches forward to shift the collar back and reads the name engraved there.

_Spooky_

The cat rolls onto her back and blinks at him expectantly.

“Hi, Spooky.”

. . .

They finish the Argo II.

They finish the Argo II and sail to Camp Jupiter and he’s _there_.

It’s him.

Broad shoulders and dark hair and long legs and warm skin.

“ _Percy!_ ” She runs to him, runs as fast as her legs can carry, her heart like a bird against the cage of her ribs, frantic, and presses her hand to his back _(the small of his back)_ and he turns…

And his hand clamps around her wrist.

“Percy?” Her voice is small.

“Who are you?” His hair is cropped short, shorter than she’s ever seen, and so close to his scalp that the texture — _the windswept waves and almost curls that she runs her fingers through_ — are lost. His face, his features, twist in annoyance, in disgust. “I don’t know you.”

His ocean eyes are hard and unbearably foreign and she feels as if she's been struck violently. His thumb digs into the center of her palm as his grip grows stronger, tighter.

Too tight.

“Percy.” She struggles to snatch her hand away, the tendons of her wrist, her palm, straining, screaming, against his force. “Percy, you’re hurting me.”

There’s agony and then a sickly _crack_ and then blood, swelling from between his fingers and rushing down their arms like the surge of the tide.

_“Who is Percy?”_

. . .

She wakes with a start, clutching her wrist, and his name on her lips.

There’s blood. Blood on her hands. Blood on her sheets.

She kicks away them away in panic but they tangle at her legs and her breath is coming in short, harsh gasps because she can’t breathe, _she can’t breathe_ , and—

— And the dream haze fades.

There’s no blood.

There’s no blood at all.

She lays for a moment, struggling for air, heaving, and she has to press her hand to her chest because her heart is threatening to burst from it.

And then she laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs until they turn to sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title to the chapter was the Terribly Long, Horrible to Write Chapter. I actively tried to make it shorter and before I went into this chapter, I thought it was going to be. However, it didn't take me long to realize how much was left out between tlh and moa that I both wanted and needed to fill in. Even now, I feel like there's so much more to be said about this 7-month gap.
> 
> The relationships between Jason, Piper, Leo, Annabeth, Nico, etc all had to be established in this chapter. I shifted quite a bit, considering that Leo and Jason weren't really close to Annabeth in canon. Then with Nico, I have, of course, a decade of material to work with and I'm a sucker for platonic relationships and that dude.
> 
> Finally, finally, the next chapter will be on the one and only, Percy Jackson. I honestly can't wait and I hope you guys enjoyed.


	5. Naked to the Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Percy chapter! It will cover about half the time he spent by himself before Son of Neptune starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys remember this story? Thanks for all of your sweet comments and being so patient with me. The support really keeps me going and I hope you enjoy.

. . .

**Naked to the Eyes**

. . .

Around him, the sea rages.

The waves are endless _—_ towering mountains of dark ocean that crash into each other in a froth of white and then tumble and swell and then crash again. Compared to their greatness, he’s a mere speck. Like a single star in an entire night sky. A grain of sand to the immeasurable expanse of the sea.

But there’s no intimidation. No fear.

_(Why would there be?)_

There’s only power. Immense and unrestrained.

He can feel it singing to him — _for_ him — like a Siren and his blood threads to that timeless song.

Above him, in the dark sky, lightning arches like a looming hand, chased by a roll of thunder, the type that bellows and thuds into his bones —

_(I will not.)_

But the sea brings him back to himself. Louder. Larger.

Angrier.

_(I swear on the styx—)_

There’s a jerk around his middle, as if a rope tethered to him was tugged, and he goes down, down, down beneath the surface of the waves. He can still see the storm raging on above him, like a surging layer of shattered glass, but here is still and blue.

Vast, boundless, blue.

. . .

And he drifts on.

. . .

He blinks and there’s a woman.

She sits next to him on the beach.

Her leg is pressed against his, warm, and glowing in the afternoon sun. His eyes linger there — at the smooth expanse of tan skin, speckled white by the sand — and then flicks to her face, tracing the pretty lines of her profile.

She’s written with a certain air of regality, something about the sharp cut of her cheeks and the straight slope of her nose and the way her hair cascades in lofty curls down her back, as gold and bright as the sun.

And it’s the way those features rest as well. Haughty but not necessarily harsh.

More prideful — as if the world was just hers to command.

A princess, he thinks. (Or perhaps a queen.)

 _“Annabeth.”_ The name comes to his lips as easy as breathing.

She turns to meet his gaze and the sunlight glints pale off the swing of her hair. Her lips curve into a smile —the type that’s pearly and vibrant and transforms her face to a lovely softness. Her eyes shimmer as if there’s a light behind them.

( _I love her.)_

The thought is not a realization but rather an acknowledgment — a recognition — of a base truth.

He loves her. Simply. Deeply.

She’s saying something to him, her lips moving, but the words don’t register, then she laughs and the sound makes his heart ache.

She raises her hand — a ring catches the sun — and brushes the line of his cheek with her fingertips before cradling his jaw.

His eyes flutter shut as he leans into her touch. He presses his hand atop hers, to deepen the contact, to feel the warmth of her skin and swipe his thumb along the softness of it.

She pulls away.

When his eyes open, her face is tinged with sadness. Her eyebrows drawn together, a cheek hollow as if she were biting it in.

“Hey.” He says, but his voice sounds off — as if he were underwater. “Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

He takes her face into his hands to pull her eyes back to him. They’re glossy and as gray as thunderclouds, brimming with words she doesn’t say. Instead, she merely shakes her head and leans forward.

Her kiss is as soft and gentle as the sea. Sweet.

But a little melancholy as well.

. . .

Waking doesn't feel like waking.

It feels more as if he’s passed the barrier that separates worlds — like breaching the surface of water — and the shift in realities, in colors, in emotions, leaves him reeling.

The beach, _Annabeth_ , was bright. Bright like the sun, like the shine off the waters, like the whiteness of the sand, and like the glow of her skin, her hair, her smile.

 _Here_ is darkness — unknown and consuming.

There’s a peal of thunder and he’s aware and wired, blood thrumming adrenaline, with restlessness. As if an army of ants were swarming beneath his skin.

Rain pours from the night sky, heavy and icy, pelting against him in the unforgiving stream of the wind and he has to push away plastered locks of hair from his eyes with trembling fingers. His breath comes hard and curls white in the darkness.

He has no idea where he is.

Pale, thin trees tower high above him like a cage of bone. His eardrums strain at another crash of lightning and the shadows of branches are cast against him, his arms, the ground… his bare feet.

He doesn't have any shoes.

_Why doesn't he have shoes?_

His eyes flit about wildly — tree branches, inky darkness, rain, muddy feet, _lightning_ — and then there’s a snap of a branch and his head whips towards the sound.

But there’s nothing, nothing but white trees that bleed into blackness and yet…

A shiver runs up his spine, the skin on the back of his neck prickling, and he is certain there’s something there, hidden in the night.

Eyes that are watching him from all angles, pressing into his flesh—

His breath quickens and he throws his hands out, a twisting in his gut, and he’s never been more aware of himself, of his heartbeat in his ears, of the rain that pours on him, around him, above him, and he swears he can hear — _feel?_ — the pulse of seven other—

_(Don’t.)_

He gasps and his concentration slips from him like water through his fingers.

It was _her_ voice. The woman’s — Annabeth.

He feels lightheaded, feverish, and he can’t tell from what before a figure emerges from the trees and he meets the silver eyes of a giant wolf.

. . .

With every flicker of lightning, the she-wolf is closer and closer, much too tall and eyes too aware to be anything but a simple wolf.

There are others — wolves that stalk him from all sides and he tries to count them — two beyond, her, two past the trees on either side — but they’re gone, moved, with every fragment of light and his eyes can’t keep track.

Canine teeth and eyes glint in flashes and fear coils in his stomach like a snake, urging to strike before they can.

“Stay back,” he warns but the words are swallowed by the downpour of the rain. He tries again, louder, “ _Stay back!_ ”

And they stop.

He finds her gaze.

But it’s not a wolf anymore.

It’s a woman.

Her skin and hair are a luminescent, coppery brown — that same shade of the she-wolf’s fur — but it’s her eyes that verify she’s one the same. Like two silver moons that reflect in the night.

She bears no weapons. But from the way her hair is braided away from her stoic face to the gleam of armor that peaks beneath the cape of fur to how her stare cuts into him like teeth, he gets the distinct feeling its because she doesn't need any.

There’s no threat to her stance. Nothing that tells him that she’s readying to lunge forward, to attack, but he’s at his breaking point. He hates being exposed like this — surrounded, back open to an unknown — and his instincts scream at him to _fight, fight, fight_.

With a yell, he thrusts his arms outward, his gut knotting, and the rain halts.

Everything seems still, quiet, for a prolonged moment. Even the wind has died as the drops hover in mid-air as if the world were waiting with bated breath. Then, with the movement of his hands, they shift. They swirl around him in a slow-moving cyclone, melding into hundreds of ribbons no longer than the length of his arm. There’s a crackling sound like water on ice and then he’s surround — _protected_ — by a doming barrier of frozen shards, glinting in their suspension.

His head pounds and he’s strung as tight as an arrow, and when the growls erupt around him he nearly swipes his arms out to send these ice daggers flying—

But she simply raises a hand and the growls end as quickly as they began. She tilts her head, eyes rolling over him in appraisal and when she speaks, the words are like a growl.

“ _Perseus Jackson.”_

And it feels as if he’s been pulled under by the drag of the undertow.

Perseus Jackson. Perseus Jackson. Perseus Jackson.

The name echoes and rolls in his skull like thunder. Shatters his stream of thoughts like a stone through glass. His head stirs — stirs at _something_ that flocks to the outskirts, undefinable and untouchable, and a hot wave of irritation washes over him. The daggers tremble and clink like glass chimes.

His senses buzz and prick wildly but finally, he manages to speaks.

“That’s my name, isn't it?” His voice is rough.

She nods once, a sharp, jerky movement. “Yes.”

“Perseus Jackson.” He tries it for himself, rolling the syllabus over his tongue, and it's just _odd_. Seconds before the words were like bombs in his head, violent and jagged, but now that the dust has settled, they just feel hollow.

He scowls.

“Your instincts are strong, son of Sea.”The tone is too severe to be a compliment. “There’s a reason why you're here.”

Here.

“Where is _here_?” His eyes flick to the trees, to the darkness beyond them, then back to her stare.

“Sonoma Valley. A mile outside the Wolf House.”

The words mean nothing to him.

He tilts his head skyward, eyeing the blackness — a blackness that consumes the tips of the trees and makes them seem as if they could stretch on endlessly. A blackness that cloaks any stars that he may have seen.

But he could wait. Wait until the sky clears and use the constellations as a guide. Or if the storm doesn't break, he could wait until dawn when the forest brightens and work from there.

“I wouldn’t.”

He looks to her again. _Can she_ —

“Much more awaits you, godling.” Beads of rain slip down her hair, the plains of her face, the fur of her cape. “If you leave now, there’s no guarantee you make it back to the girl.”

His eyes widen, fingers twitching, and the ice shards jolt outward, slightly, as blonde curls and stormy eyes and bittersweet kisses steal his thoughts. Behind him, there's an anxious whimper, but she remains unconcerned.

 _“_ And why should I listen to you? _”_

Then a predatory smirk curls her lips and her eyes are _irritatingly_ knowing.

“What else do you have?”

. . .

The wolf house reminds him of a summer camp cabin. _(And a summer camp feels right, doesn’t it?)_

Wooden floors and wooden walls and wooden furniture are colored in brown earthy tones. Canoes, triangular flags, and other outdoorsy paraphernalia are mounted to the walls and placed among shelves. Maybe in the light of day, it appears more welcoming, pretty even, but in the night it’s endless hallways of locked doors that disappear into darkness. It’s the sound of claws against hardwood floor and distant howling and eyes that he can’t see watching him.

So in his room, he shuts and locks the door then pushes a dresser in front of it for good measure.

A large stone fireplace takes up one wall, housing a fire that blazes seemingly of its own volition. Across from it, a simple double bed is tucked into the corner and a dark red door leads to a bathroom. A desk is placed underneath the sole window — It would be a tight fit, but if he needed to make a quick escape he could.

He’s already dry from the rain — a desire that had barely graced his thoughts before the water dissolved from his clothes, his skin — but that numbing cold presses into him still and he wraps the thin, threadbare blanket from the bed around himself like a cloak, sinking down onto the rug.

And in his fingers, he plays with his ring.

(The one he slipped from his left hand.)

The band glows golden and under the light of the fire, he can see the intricate swells of ocean waves engraved there, ornamented by tiny, tiny pearls.

It’s beautiful, and when he shifts it just right, his eyes catch on something etched into the underside.

_fighting next to you._

He can hear the words said in _her_ voice and for a moment, his mind flits somewhere else —

Somewhere where Annabeth catches the downward swing of his sword by the hilt of her own. She peers up at him underneath the horizontal edge of his blade and her eyes are startling against a backdrop of light gray — concrete? stone?— and she lets out a breathless laugh. Her hair is darker with rain, long strands plastered to her cheeks, her neck, and her smile is stunning and  _gods_ he loves her.

“Marry me.” He says.

Her eyes grow wide and her jaw works for a moment. Then an eyebrow raises, inquisitive, daring. “Is that a question?”

“Marry-“ But his words are cut off as she pulls his sword arm down, _him_ down, and her lips are on his. She kisses him fiercely, deeply, with everything. Her fists bunch at his shirt to tug him closer, closer, closer, and his free hand presses and pulls at her back to keep him steady.

“Yes.” She breathes, pulling back just far enough to do so. “Yes. _Yes-“_

The piercing howl of a wolf brings him back to himself.

Unwittingly, his eyes flick to the door, then the window…

With a sigh, he slips the ring back onto his finger.

 _I’m coming back to you._ He vows and hopes, wherever she is, that she knows.

. . .

Blue eyes stare back at him. Or maybe they’re green.

It’s hard to tell in the lighting of the bathroom that tints everything sallow.

The lines of his face rest sharp, hard, framed by dark, tousled hair.

He looks angry.

He _is_ angry.

Maybe because he felt as if he could drag memories from the planes of his own face. That he could remember _something_ in the point of his chin or the slope of his nose or the hang of his hair. But his face is a face and nothing else.

Perseus turns from the mirror, a tick in his jaw.

Steam curls from the spray of the shower, welcoming, and he forces himself through the motions. Shoes off. Shirt off. Jeans off. Piling at his feet.

It’s then that he finds the necklace tied to his ankle. Immediately, the words _arts and crafts_ come to mind because it’s the sort of necklace that’s comprised of large, clunky, clay beads strung on a leather cord. On each one there’s a different image painted: A trident, a labyrinth, a ring… but the bead that stands out the most is the fourth in the line-up.

A building — a skyscraper? — framed by a winding series of names. _Michael Yew, Silena Beauregard, Charles Beckendorf, Luke Castellan_ …

The names ripple into his thoughts like the drop of coins into a well.

He _knows_ them. And it feels as if something important is picking at him, edging on the tip of his tongue…

But nothing comes.

. . .

Lupa trains him.

It’s her stipulation that she does so — that she _prepares_ him before sending him off and maybe he’s a little impatient, a little irritated, because it all feels just so painstakingly perfunctory when fighting is something he _already_ knows.

Combat, battle, strategy.These concepts aren’t new to him — they’re instinctual. Innate. A second nature that’s been finely honed.

(And he _knows_ he must have been trained before.)

But Lupa says she’s here to help him. That she helps all demigods.

She also says that if he follows this path it will lead him to his wife. Annabeth.

And that’s enough to make him stay. To listen.

He doesn't trust her. Not completely, at least, because there are too many questions she can’t answer or chooses not to. But she _is_ right in the fact that he doesn't have many options, and him picking up what he can from her is far better than him traversing off blindly — _stupidly_ — into the woods.

He’s not agreeing to anything.Not selling his soul or signing on the dotted line for some godsforsaken quest or journey or whatever she wants to call the damn thing.

He’s simply weighing his options.

Yeah.

That’s it.

. . .

Lupa blocks the swipe of his sword — (the sword that came from the pen in his pocket) — with her own and the screech of the blades echo in the stone courtyard. They weigh into each other, pressing, and he can feel the surge of godly power from her, the woods, the grounds, then with a sigh, the pressure lifts and she steps back, lowering her sword. 

“Thrust your sword more. You slash too often.”

“Why?” He doesn’t bother to keep the exasperation from his tone. “What does that matter?”

“It’s the _roman_ way.” Her face is hard, silver eyes flinty. She shifts a foot back to brace against the stone and the action makes her seem more animal than human. “Stabbing causes more lethal wounds. Has a much higher chance of piercing vital organs. It’s how we conquered.”

“And slashing can have more leverage behind it. It can cause more muscle damage which inhibits your opponent from fighting back.” Perseus brandishes his sword in a slow arch — almost as if he were giving a demonstration. The sky is overcast but the golden bronze blade still glints as if it managed to pick up a hint of sunlight.

“It depends on the situation and the weapon. Combat is dynamic. How many opponents do I have? Armor? _Their_ weapons? If I fought with a smaller weapon, like a dagger, or if I were in close ranks, the thrusting technique would be more effective. But here now, with a sword in an open space, I have more freedom. Besides, am I aiming to kill? Or am I aiming to…” There are several words that spring up from the depths of his mind to finish that statement and his brow furrows at the implication. He finishes lamely, “…incapacitate?”

“ _I_ do not need to be lectured on strategy, godling.” The words are a growl edging on irritation and her lips curl back, bearing sharp teeth. “You are roman and where you’re heading will expect you to act — to fight — that way. Your lineage, your age, your _blessing_ , are all going to set them on edge and it would be wise of you to not offer anything else that may push them over it. Even your fighting style.”

That only sparks more questions than it answers — creates a cacophony of _why’s?_ in his head that he is certain she wouldn’t answer regardless if he verbalized them— but its a different battle for a different time because she’s raising her sword and then they’re sparring once more.

. . .

His dreams are always of Annabeth.

They flow and ebb like the swirl of a kaleidoscope, glimpses that are loose and incomplete and lacking in any context:

Her hair, golden and wild, as it blows around her sharp, pretty face from the wind streaming through an open car window, the white flash of a smile peeking through — a plaid skirt and crisp blazer, cheeks flushed with anger as her hands gesticulate dramatically, all set against the backdrop of concrete stairs — gray eyes that are thunderstorms in her anger and shimmering rain in her softness — laughter that chimes as his fingers dig into her sides — then something else entirely, with his hands that are on her still, but her hair is splayed across a pillow, kiss-bruised lips that are parted, and eyes that are on him, dark and —

His heart is a stone when he wakes, an aching heaviness that sinks down into his lungs, his stomach and makes him feel sick.

Still, he wouldn't trade them — _(her)_ — away for the world.

. . .

The wolf-pups like him.

They like him because his skin doesn't break beneath the drag of claws and nip of teeth which evidently makes him the best chew toy they’ve had in the last century.

(He wondered, briefly, if he has always been like this. But there’s a small, puckered scar on the palm of his hand, a patch of discoloration near his elbow that looks like an old scrape or burn, and he knows he hasn’t.)

“You need to work on defense. You fight knowing you can't get hurt.”

Sure. Defense _isn't_ on the forefront of his mind. Sometimes he doesn’t bother to cover himself or to evade oncoming attacks and why should he? That’s sort of the whole point of being invulnerable, is it not?

So yeah, maybe he is being a _little_ cheeky when he catches the next thrust of Lupa’s dagger with his bare hand and tears it from her grip.

For a moment he thinks he’s overstepped himself and the cut of her gaze springs the lines of a certain fairytale into mind.

_(Oh Granny, what big teeth you’ve got!)_

_(All the better to eat you with, my dear.)_

“New Rome won’t like that your skin is impenetrable.” She relents, finally, and Perseus tosses the weapon back into her waiting hand.

“ _New Rome_ doesn’t like a lot of the things I do apparently.”

“Including your impertinence.”

For the first time, a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. Perseus looks beyond her, beyond the courtyard, to where the dark forest fills the dips and rises of the mountainscape before trailing off into rolling green plains. The sky is cloudy — always cloudy — but now at dusk, it’s _peony_ pink and makes for a pretty picture altogether.

“It’s because of Achilles.” The thought occurs to him suddenly. “That’s why they won’t like my invulnerability. Because the Romans came from the Trojans, and Achilles was the Greek hero that fought them and I’m like him.”

He nearly grins at the absurd image of a faceless, dark-haired woman chucking a baby-him into a river with a string around his middle, like bait on fishing wire, but sobers quickly when he follows the train of thought.

If he is _truly_ like Achilles…. that means somewhere he must have had a spot left vulnerable to tie him to the mortal world.The chink in his armor.

Quite literally, an Achilles' heel.

“Yes. Like… _Achilles_.” She intones the name slowly — as if she has never said it before — and her eyes are unreadable. “A bad omen on top of a bad omen, son of Neptune. As I’ve said, it would be in your favor to keep your _blessing_ to yourself if you can.”

He frowns as the cream-colored stone beneath them starts to spot, darkening at the patter of rain.

“My…” He’s unsure of where to begin. “My _mother_ is she… will I find her as well if—“

She cuts him off. “You will find everything you're looking for if you succeed in your journey.”

Her tone is not quite so harsh. In fact, it’s softer than he’s ever heard it. But it doesn't change the implication behind her words, clear as day.

_Play your part and perhaps you can have your life back._

He’s simply the unwitting pawn in someone else’s game.

. . .

_Shen Lun was here._

The words are etched onto the backside of the hardwood Perseus pulled from his bedroom floor.

The wood had creaked particularly loud beneath his foot and when he peeled back the corner of the rug and the boards shifted like loose puzzle pieces beneath his fingertips, his suspicions were confirmed.

There’s a collection of things hidden away:

A battered pack of playing cards — _Mythomagic_ in bold, gold letters _._ A couple of dusty polaroids dated to the 70s. A handful of rainbow-colored butterfly clips…

There’s a flutter of excitement at the CD Walkman. A CD is already in the player but he's not surprised when no music spills out of the decrepit foam headphones because gods know how many years its been hidden away beneath the floor. But if he could just find some batteries he might be in luck.

And as he settles the boards back into place, his eyes find those words one last time.

The name is by no means familiar, doesn’t spark memories or anything of the sort, but as he traces his fingers over the grooves, he feels a flash of _something —_ something pressing into the front of his skull like a thumb to his forehead…

The sensation fades and with a sigh, he smooths the rug flat.

. . .

Red.

Endless red paths that go in endless red circles.

Her face is cast in that crimson haze, panicked and dirty and afraid.

(He’s afraid too.)

Annabeth is younger here — face rounder with the remnants of baby fat, the angles not quite as defined — and she slides her right hand along the mosaic-tiled wall.

Gods.Wings. A trident. Fading art of a time long past.

A three-tiered fountain decays in the center of the room and beyond that, a god with two faces guards two doors.

(Two red doors.)

 _Where do they lead?_ Her lips tremble.

 _One probably leads the way you wish to go._ Says the right face.

 _But do you know which way to choose?_ The left face sneers.

She shrinks beneath their gaze — he’s never seen her like this — but then they look to him and he stumbles back.

 _Doorways._ _Beginnings. Endings. Choices_.

_(This isn’t what happens—)_

_Is it not?_ The right muses. _We always said we would see you again, Perseus Jackson._

The room is too bright, too red.

 _(_ Her hand slips into his.)

_. . ._

Perseus blinks awake.

He had been dreaming. Right?

An eerie and fearful dream.

The blinds cast thin lines of dawn light against the floor, and beyond that, the remaining embers of a long-burned fire smolder red—

Red.

His fist clenches in the sheets. There had been something red— Annabeth’s frightened face—

He can’t remember.

_. . ._

He leaves the Wolf House the same morning.

Lupa sends him off, flanked by her wolf-pups.

“Head south.” She says.

The words hang in the still, cool air and Perseus has to swallow back a sardonic _Is that all?_

But her thousand-year-old stare presses into him. Usually, her eyes set him on edge — inspires the unsettling notion that she can peer into his head and glean his thoughts — but there’s more to her look today. A different tone he can’t settle his finger on.

“The circumstances of your arrival have plagued you with uncertainty.” She says finally, her eyes moving beyond his, over his shoulder, and breaking their hold. “You have not chosen to follow the path laid for you.”

_No._

_Maybe._

_I don’t know._

His hand rubs the back of his neck. “I-“

“At least not yet.” Her eyes come back to his again and something akin to a smile curls her lips. “We both know it is unwise to challenge a god’s will.”

He arches an eyebrow. “And which god is it that I will be defying?”

“That is not my place to say.” She smirks. “But know that I do not care for this… _plan_ that has been concocted.”

His second eyebrow joins the first. “That I should be chosen for a quest?”

A shadow passes her face like a cloud over the sun. “No. To be gifted a quest by the gods is an _honor_. An honor that any _Roman_ hero would be blessed to receive.” She points a finger, slender and sharp. “I do not care for the _one_ who has set this plan into motion. I do not believe her methods will yield the results she thinks they will.”

It’s the most information she’s tipped her hand of — the most she’s willingly _given_ him — and he understands, in her way, that it’s a departing gift. He softens, slightly.

“And _if_ I choose the path laid before me? How do I find New Rome beyond _‘heading south?’_ ”

“All roads lead to Rome, Son of Neptune. Your instincts will guide you — if you want them to, that is.”

“Right.” _Right._

“I _do_ care for all those I train, Perseus Jackson. Even those who are not pups.” He gathers something almost motherly in her smile. “I hope you well.”

For that, his next words are sincere. “Thank you, Lupa.”

. . .

Branches snap loudly under his bare feet, the only sound in the silence of the forest, and Perseus supposes he should tread more quietly, but initial caution quickly gave away to childish indignation long ago.

He’s tired. _So_ tired, because he has no idea where he is or where he’s going or what he’s doing or what he _will_ do. Trees give away to more trees — which give away to more trees — and he doesn’t know where his wife is and he doesn't know who _he_ is and he still doesn't have any shoes.

Damn shoes.

He smiles, then scowls, because he doesn’t understand why he’s smiling.

He’s also hungry.

_(Gods, that glass sure is half empty, isn’t it?)_

He huffs the fringe of his hair from his eyes.

Perseus has only a vague inclination of where he’s heading, following an instinctive feeling — that familiar, tugging, twisting sensation in his gut. So he ends up sensing it before he sees it.

The running ribbon of water curls through the trees with a gentle swiftness. He can feel it, feel the path it carves into the earth, feel it flow like the blood of his veins, and the _energy_ is invigorating.

His chest swells like a sail with a second wind and he dashes up the hill.

The stream is a benediction.

He half runs, half slides down the edge of the precipice before collapsing to his knees at the dark, pebbly edge of the stream, shrugging his bag from his shoulders. It’s a rocks throw to the other side and probably doesn't rise any higher than his waist but his senses sing _salvation_.

And sliding into the water is the sweetest relief.

He’s not sure why — the water should feel as cold as the day, colder even, but it’s a blanket to his chilled skin. It washes away his aches and troubles and worries and runs him as smooth as the stones of its bed.

He could stay here forever.

Drift to sleep and let the water carry him off to sea…

…The sea…

( _Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God)_

He breaks to the surface with a gasp —

— and meets the eyes of a woman.

. . .

Dark, wavy hair falls like seaweed around a pretty, narrow face. Her pale, blue dress is shimmery, grazing the contours of her body loosely and his eyes fall to the strap that has fallen from her shoulder, exposing pearly, smooth — His jaw clenches, and he moves his gaze solidly to her own.

A coy smile graces her lips as she adjusts her dress. “Mortals are always such prudes.”

 _Naiads are terrible flirts_ , he can hear the words in Annabeth’s lofty tone.

She blinks owlishly at him — eery blue eyes — then grins, stepping forward. “You’re not _all_ mortal though are you?”

He steps back and instinctively sends a low, warning wave of water towards her — one that swells no higher than her navel, a gentle push — but her grin grows wider, revealing thin, long teeth.

“Oh, it has been so long since I’ve dallied with a Son of Neptune.”

“Not dallying.” Perseus raises his left hand, wiggling the fingers. “Taken.”

Another step. “Fidelity isn’t exactly the virtue of the gods.” She brushes a hand at her clavicle, then draws a line down, lower and lower.

But he shakes his head, firmly, and she stills her pursuit, pouting.

“Such a waste.” She relents ground between them, drifting back. Her lascivious look shifts to suspicion. “Why _are_ you here in my stream then?”

“I’m just trying to get out of these woods.” He glares at the trees and he’s nearly positive he can hear laughter in the rustle of the leaves. “My instincts lead me here.”

“Wait.” She does something weird — she _sniffs_ the air — then shudders. “Ugh. You came from the dog house, didn't you? I can _smell_ it all over you.”

Perseus lifts the collar of his shirt to his nose, curious, but he doesn’t smell anything. “You mean the Wolf House?”

She waves her hand, her nose scrunching. “Same thing. I can’t tell you how many sniveling children I get here. _‘I’m so thirsty! Please, just one drink?’_ ” She rolls her eyes and then peers at him oddly, as if he said something mildly bizarre. “You’re not a child though.”

“I’m not.” He agrees.

His gaze falls to the stream, and he watches, _feels_ , the water part around him, around her — pull at her skirts, her long hair — and sew together again.

“Where does this stream lead?” He presses a palm to the surface and the water splits smoothly between his fingers. He imagines the expanse of its flow, imagines following the waters — the stream meeting a river meeting the sea. The skin of his hand prickles. “Is there a town?”

Silence.

He looks to her, only to find the same puzzled expression to her face.

 _“What?”_ He presses.

“Perseus Jackson.” She says distantly — as if talking to herself — and his heart skips.

“You… know me?”

“Of course, I know you.” She scoffs. She must read the excitement — the desperation — from his face because she shakes her head. “Only by name. There is only one half-blood child of the Sea God.”

“By name?”

“Yes, by name.” Her hands smack down into the stream in exasperation, sending two plumes of water high above that then rain down over them. She glides closer and her eyes probe his face as if to check for the lines of a mask. “I’d dare say there aren’t many nonhuman creatures that _don’t_ know of you.”

 _What?_

He shakes his head to clear the fog, but it sits thick and heady and blinding. “That’s-“

She inhales again, an arms-length away. “Yes. The dog. The gorgon. The bull. And—“ Her eyes widen. “Oh. I see.”

He leans forward — the current surges. “What is it?”

“A meddling goddess.” Her lips twist and her pale eyes narrow. “One that I will _not_ be smited by. You must leave.”

“Leave?” He’s astounded. He throws his arms up and the stream follows the movement, splattering and glittering in the sunlight. “But you know who.”

Gone is any coyness, any slyness from her demeanor. She tenses as she eyes the water, then him, the trees, the sky. Her hands twist in the fabric of her skirts.

“Please.” She whispers. “I don’t want to invoke her wrath. And names have powers.” She points beyond him. “Follow the stream to the river. And the river will lead you to the sea. You’ll be in your father’s domain then. He may help you.”

“Wait-“ _He’s so close._ He reaches out —

She dissolves into a splash of water that slips through his fingers like silk ribbons.

. . .

He leaves.

. . .

She was right.

The freshwater stream connects to a river — which is decidedly murkier and he’s certain something must be polluting it — then the river births to the sea.

The vast, unbounded sea.

Night has fallen and the water glints like starry, liquid obsidian. If one didn't know better, it may appear depthless — but _he_ knows better. He can sense the outline of the ocean floor, a gentle descent from the shore, then a steep drop off.

He can feel the power — the deep ocean currents, the waves meeting the shore, the pull of the undertow, the rip of the tide.

_(His.)_

And yet, something is off.

Maybe because he was expecting to find _something_ here. Maybe a sign (of the huge, neon, unmistakable sort.) Maybe Annabeth, or even his father, standing on the beach with open arms going, “Perseus where have you been?!”

_Yeah. Right._

He sighs and starts for the shore, hoping the sand won’t be too unkind of a bed.

. . .

By morning, the Wolf House feels like a distant dream.

A very weird, very distant dream.

And it’s bizarre, really, because the past weeks of his memorable life have been spent in the middle of a bumfuck forest with only a magical pack of wolves as company and now here’s _civilization_ , plain as day.

Actual buildings. Actual houses. Actual cars. Shimmering like a mirage in the early sun.

He feels as tentative as a deer as he makes his way across the beach towards where he can see the distant outer edges of the city.

A sidewalk gives to a high-end strip of coastal shops and the word _posh_ comes to mind but he can’t even make himself care.

Food.

Greasy. Salty. Unhealthy food.

His stomach twists painfully and he doesn’t give a second thought before he heads into the diner.

. . .

 _Hannah_ puckers her lips as she taps her pen rapidly against the hostess stand.

Her eyes linger at his bare feet, his ratty clothing, his five o’clock shadow, then steels herself a simpering smile as she grabs a menu.

“Table for one?”

Before Perseus can answer, a voice interjects smoothly. “Two, actually.”

And he turns to meet himself.

. . .

Perseus works to keep his jaw from slacking. “I know you.”

His doppelgänger simply looks at him as if he were a bumbling idiot. “Of course, you do.” The man’s menu falls to the booth with a loud _slap_ as he flashes a charming smile to the waitress. Perseus hadn’t realized she come back.

“A coffee. Black.” He says and arches a prompting eyebrow to Perseus — a gesture that Perseus knows he does himself — and then he clears his throat. Another prompt.

“Uh.” His voice is hoarse. “A coffee for me as well. And a coke.”

The waitress — a college-aged girl with pin-straight dark hair — smiles sweetly. Her name tag reads _Sarah_. “I’ll get those right to ya.” Then she nods knowingly. “Twins?”

“Brothers.” The man winks and Perseus stares.

Well, it certainly makes sense. The man is the near spitting image of himself — the same tan skin, the same black hair, the same sea-green eyes, the same sharp features.

However, the man’s hair hangs long and very straight, parted neatly down the middle and coming to a clean end below his chin. And Perseus is pretty sure — now that he is looking for differences — that the man’s face is longer, his chin more rounded.

But is this how a _brother_ would react to a reunion with the assumably long lost one? Shouldn’t there be more… joy? Relief?

The man smirks over steepled fingers. “She really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

Perseus doesn’t even know where to begin. “I- _Who-_ What-“ He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger. “Is this a stroke? Is this what a stroke feels like?”

He laughs.

“Is this _funny_ to you?” Perseus glares.

“Honestly? A little bit.”

Perseus slaps his palms to the table. “What. Is. Going. _On?_ ”

The man sobers, sighing. “What’s going on is fucking….” He struggles for the word. “Fucking _fuck_.”

Perseus could not have said it better himself.

Sarah settles the drinks between the war zone, then flips open a little notepad, clicking a pen. “You guys ready?”

He hadn't even looked at the menu.

“Two All-Stars specials.” The man says smoothly and Perseus doesn’t argue as she sweeps the menus into her arms.

“Sounds great!”

The man — _brother?_ — watches her walk off with careful eyes, before continuing, softly. “What’s going on is another great prophecy is at our doorstep. What’s going on is our Uncle has let fear clout his judgment. What’s going on is our Aunt has committed acts that could - _should_ be considered _war_ against our realm.”

Silence.

Perseus knows who this man is.

“Tri-“

“Ah, ah, ah!” His brother shakes his head. “My name cannot be spoken here. _They_ cannot know I’ve done this. If Aunt wants to play dirty, it’s only fair we do as well.” His eyes sweep over the patrons of the diner. “Call me… Adrian. Yes.” He nods. “Adrian.”

“Adrian.” Perseus begins, tone low and deathly serious. Sea green meets sea green. “I need to get back home. Annabeth-“

Adrian’s eyes widen. “You _remember_ her?”

“She’s the only person I do.”

He smooths his hands over his hair. “Why am I not surprised? That blonde…” The rest is a snarl under his breath.

Perseus raises a brow — then scowls remembering how Adrian does the same. “Is there an _issue_?”

“Yes. And no. It makes this whole ordeal even more of a mess.”

“How so?”

“Because you’re _you_.” He states it as if it's perfectly obvious. “And you’re going to agonize over whether you should just be finding her or if you should do as you’ve been told _then_ find her. You’ll _probably_ get back to her either way, its just time semantics at that point.”

“It’s not just _time semantics_.” Perseus scowls. “Maybe I don’t want to be forced to do something I don’t want to.”

“Oh.” Adrian grins like that cat the caught the canary. “There’s no maybe about it, _little brother_. I _know_ you don’t want to do something you’ve been forced to.”

Whatever Perseus had been going to say next is forgotten because the waitress comes with a platter heaped with food.

Eggs. Toast. Waffles. Sausage. Ham. Hash-browns. Bacon.

 _Bacon_.

“Eat.” Adrian says, waving a hand, and Perseus doesn’t have to be told twice.

. . .

“…Perseus.” Adrain says midway through Perseus’s gorging. There’s a certain tone to it — as if a joke were flying over his head — and a hot flicker of irritation licks at him.

“ _Adrian._ ” He says it with the same inflection, but his brother merely grins.

“I’ve come…” He slides a finger along the rim of his coffee cup. “... To help you.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Of my own goodwill at that. Be mindful I don’t just curse you and be on with my day.”

“I’m shaking.” Perseus deadpans.

“I’m going to help you because I know what you’re going to choose. And I’m warning you that it’s wrong.”

Perseus stills. Then he lowers his biscuit back to his plate, sitting straight. “And what is it you think I’ll choose?”

“You’re going to choose the _girl_. And I’m telling you that you’ll _both_ be happier in the long run if you choose the quest.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Why should you choose the quest? Oh,” Adrian shrugs. “Little things like duty, honor, responsibility. And with the quest, you’ll most likely regain your memories. Without it? Probably not.” His eyes narrow. "Then again, it could all just be a toss up no matter what you do. The fates are fun like that." 

Perseus's frown deepens. Truth be told, _he_ still wasn't sure what he was going to do.“Is she…” He begins. “Do you know how she is right now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t take it upon myself to keep tabs on your wife.” His cool response is answer enough.

Perseus’s stomach churns and he pushes his plate away.

Sarah checks in. “How are we splitting the check today?”

The bastard is quiet just long enough to make Perseus tick. “One check,” His brother says, finally, handing her a card.

“I’m curious.” Adrian quips once she’s back out of earshot. “How were you going to pay before I came?”

“I wasn’t. I had been debating between dine-n-dash or a sob story on how I had been robbed.”

“How heroic.” Adrian downs the rest of his coffee.

. . .

Perseus peers up at the darkening clouds with mild regard as they make their way down back to the beach. He can sense the heaviness in them — it will be pouring soon.

“It rains so much.” He comments then Adrian shoots him a look as if he’s missed something embarrasingly obvious.

“Seriously?” He says incredulously.

A stab of self-doubt. “ _What?_ ”

Adrian shakes his head, scoffing. “Acts of war.”

Perseus has no idea what he means.

Adrian veers sharply from the sidewalk and onto the brown-sugar sand.

The sea has grown as dark as the sky and just as restless — and Perseus feels jittery with anticipation. As if he had drunk ten cups of coffee instead of one.

As they near the waters, Adrian halts, suddenly, breathing in sharply, and Perseus knows he can feel it too.

“Get ready.” He says.

Perseus blinks. “For-“

A force slams into his chest like a battering ram and he’s blown back across the beach. He tumbles only once in the sand before his brain catches up and he rightens himself, bracing his feet and sliding with the momentum. He raises his head. “What the-“

Adrian stands about 20 yards away, a dark, gleaming, trident still outstretched from where it rammed into him. Wind tears his dark hair about his face.

“What is wrong with you?!” Perseus yells. He pulls Riptide from his pocket and unsheathes it, twirling the weapon once — to prepare himself for the motion.

“What’s wrong with _you_?!” Adrian retaliates. “You don’t even remember your heritage, _Stormbreaker._ Does that not ring any bells?”

Thunder booms as a testament to his words and that sensation — the aching feeling of overwhelming pressure in his skull — sends a throb of pain through his head.

Rain patters against the sand.

“ _You’re_ the bringer of storms.” He points at Perseus with his trident. His voice should be drowned out by the thunder, the ocean, the rain. But, impossibly, it’s louder. “ _You’re_ the earth shaker. Or did you forget that as well?”

_Yes._

Lupa had wanted him to rely solely on his swordsmanship — New Rome would be scared by his powers — _Children of Neptune are bad omens_ — so he had never explored what all his abilities encompassed.

“You were chosen because you’re powerful, Perseus. Too powerful for some. Our aunt will use this as an opportunity to bring you down.”

A burst of anger, white-hot like fire, rises up against the pain in his head, and he releases the energy with a yell — a yell the makes the earth tremble, _shake_.

The ocean rises to his call, swelling behind him like the water of a dam, hundreds of thousands of gallons of salty water threatening to be unleashed.

But the same happens for Adrian, a mirror image.

Their eyes lock across the distance — _the same eyes_ — then they begin forward, running — Perseus with his sword and Adrian with his trident — walls of ocean surging behind them, and they meet like the clash of two opposing forces.

Ocean meets and tears and swirls around them, the sand shakes, and yet they're both steady. — Unable to be affected by the shared ability. Two sons of the sea.

The hilt of his sword is caught by the fork of the trident and ripped from his hands, disappearing into the storm of ocean in a blur of gold, but Perseus follows Adrian's momentum — shifting his grip to the shaft of the trident and pressing a foot to Adrian’s abdomen and  _pulling—_

—And he tears the trident from Adrian’s grip.

He flips it over the length of his arm — perfectly balanced — and bears the three, sharp points to Adrian’s throat.

 _“Yield._ ” He commands through clenched teeth.

And strangely, Adrian smiles like he expected nothing less. He raises his palms up in surrender, eyes lit with all the power of a hurricane. “You learned from the best.” 

"Hardly."

. . .

The car ignition sparks to life.

Perseus smiles and lets the wires drop from his fingers.

It’s not like he _wants_ to steal… It's just if he wants to get to New Rome within the next decade he needs a faster method than walking across the state of California.

He's _borrowing_. — That's it. 

. . .

“The loss of your memories have stripped you.” Adrian — _Triton_ — says. “It's up to you to take your power back.”

. . .

And as Perseus drives, he sings along to the radio at the top of his lungs.

_Can you hear me you peers and privvy counsellors_

_I stand before you naked to the eyes_

_I will destroy any man who dares abuse my trust_

_I swear that you'll be mine_

_The seven seas of rhye_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy?
> 
> A couple of things I wanted to go over for anyone who's interested.
> 
> 1) Percy to Perseus. I made a post about this on my tumblr, but just to expand it here as well. Nearly every god/monster/enemy to Percy has called him Perseus. Yet in SON, he's called Percy. And it occurred to me... why would they call him Percy? Lupa should call him Perseus Jackson, and Percy wouldn't know to question it. It creates a greater distinction for the readers of the Percy we know, and the Perseus who has no memories.
> 
> 2) With Lupa. My goal was to make her both helpful and yet hindering to him. She's grooming him for Rome... yet he's so very greek. Also, this is probably the first person she's trained that is NOT a child, which would be a different dynamic for someone who is a mother wolf.
> 
> 3) I also tried to put a distinction on Percy's choice this chapter and also just set up the beginning of his fatal flaw debate: A loved one vs the world. 
> 
> 4) Shen Lun is the child of Neptune that created the earthquake and first instilled the fear of Neptune for New Rome. (Also Frank is a descendent!)
> 
> 5) I debated a lot with how... nsfw I wanted to make the Naiad. I decided the whole point of the story was so I could age up and put more adult themes in so I enjoyed writing the "terrible flirt"
> 
> 6)Adrian is Triton just encase its not explicitly clear. Adrian is a reference to the Adriatic Sea. This is something vastly different from the original canon - this relationship I've created between the two. I remember Percy talking about how he goes to his dad's palace often... and I'm just a slut for a petty as hell sibling relationship between the two. (Also implied beef between Triton and Annabeth)
> 
> 7) Percy's powers! I definitely wanted to develop them more. In the beginning I already indicated his control over temperature. Now by the end I included earthquake powers (and more emphasis on storms) Just to be clear, all the storms in this chapter where caused by Percy (he just didn't know it)
> 
> 8) The lyrics from the end of the chapter are from Seven Seas of Rhye by Queen. (Ya know, the title of the story)
> 
> Let me know if you have any questions and feel free to yell at me on my Tumblr.


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